


Gin and Tonic

by orphan_account



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Alcohol, Bands, Bars and Pubs, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, Mild Language, Mods and Rockers, The Who fanfic, the beach boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 18:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Childhood friends turned Friends-With-Benefits, you and Keith Moon have some unresolved feelings that need to be worked out.





	Gin and Tonic

**Author's Note:**

> In response to two anon Tumblr requests - Keith Moon dancing to the Beach Boys at the club, and a Keith/Reader FWB arrangement. Posted this on Incognito mode after writing the majority of it between customers on a slow day at work, so please excuse the lack of editing.

The screech of your alarm clock woke you from a pleasant dream, and brought you back to the unfortunate reality that it was Saturday morning, and you were _very_ hungover. Sunlight streamed in through the window beside your bed, illuminating the scene before you: clothes were strewn across the floor, your duvet had fallen off the end of the bed, and Keith Moon was wrapped up in the sheets beside you, snoring softly.

With a pained groan, you reached over Keith’s body and swatted at the clock in an attempt to stop that terrible racket, which was only adding to your headache. Squinting, you read the time, and saw that you had given yourself only half an hour to shower and dress before you’d need to be at the tube station. _Why is drunk me so stupid?_

“Wake up, Keith” you mumbled, setting a hand on his bare shoulder and giving him a gentle shake. “I’ve got to go to work.” He continued to snooze, unfazed by your attempt at waking him. Putting your face directly beside his ear, you shouted, “Moonie, the building’s on fire. Wake the fuck up!” 

“That’s a terrible lie,” a bleary-eyed Keith yawned, turning his face towards you. “Close the curtains, will you?” Annoyed, you grabbed one of the decorative pillows you’d thrown to the floor the night previous and gave the back of his head a good thwack. “Ow!” he complained, raising his arm defensively over his scalp. “My ‘ead hurts, so be nice, will yah?” 

“Not my fault you drank the club dry last night,” you shot back. “Now get up and get in the shower, you loon.” Keith stretched his arms above his head and rolled onto his back. The sheets had slipped down to his waist as he shifted in bed, providing you the perfect opportunity to provide a bit of extra ‘encouragement’. With a wicked smile, you reached out and jabbed your fingers into Keith’s sides, just below his rib cage. His eyes snapped open in surprise, and he let out a raucous howl of laughter. 

“Y/N, that TICKLES!” he squealed, his voice rising two octaves. Keith grabbed at your wrists, trying to stop your assault on his abdomen. “Please, please, I’m begging you. I’ll get up, okay? For real, I promise.” 

“There’s a good boy,” you said, smirking down at him. “You’ve got about 25 minutes to shower and get out, so don’t take too long, now.” 

* * * * * 

“So he stayed the night, then?” Emily – your cubicle partner – asked. She had a sly twinkle in her eye, and you knew without her having to elaborate what she was _really_ getting at. 

“Yes, he stayed the night,” you said, attempting to keep your tone calm and casual. “And _no_, he’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends, that’s all.” She arched an eyebrow, not believing you for a second. 

“Friends who have regularly scheduled hook-ups?” Emily teased. “Keith’s smitten with you, Y/N, and you’re either too blind to see it, or too embarrassed to admit it.” Your cheeks flushed red, but you didn’t respond to her goading comment. Keith had been your friend for ages, and even though you had slept together a few times now, that didn’t mean that you had to be anything more than friends. You were both happy being single, and saw no reason to mess up a good thing by labeling it. 

“They aren’t scheduled, Em,” you muttered. “It just sort of…happens, y’know?” 

“It just _happens_?” your coworker cried, forgetting for a moment that the entire office wasn’t interested in hearing about your love life. “It ‘happens’ because you’re mad for each other.” She crossed her arms over her chest and refused to hear a single word of denial on your part. 

In your mind, though, you and Keith _were_ just friends. You’d gone to the same primary school, and had maintained a friendship even after Keith had dropped out of secondary school at 14. The main tenets of your relationship had always been skiffle and rock music – with California surf being your favorite – and a keen interest in sneaking into clubs to dance into the early hours of the morning. 

Something had changed a few months before, and you couldn’t yet identify what the trigger had been. One night, after all your other companions had left the flat Keith and a friend were renting together, the two of you found yourselves in a deep, intense discussion about the ways of the world. It was strange but wonderful to see this new, thoughtful side of the drummer, you had thought. Keith had drunk enough to make himself feel bold, and during a pause in the conversation, he had leaned forward on a whim, hoping you wouldn’t slap him. Significantly more drunk that he, you had lurched eagerly (and thoughtlessly) into a kiss. One thing led to the next, and the following morning, you woke up in the drummer’s twin bed, tired but satisfied by the events of the previous night. 

To some, this might have been interpreted as an admission of romantic feelings for each other. After all, if neither of you had felt any sort of attraction for the other, nothing would have happened. When the hangover had worn off, you had insisted upon having an earnest conversation about it all, and both came to the conclusion that it was a one-time thing that had been the result of loneliness and a fuck-ton of brandy. 

When it happened a second and third time, however, Keith decided to make it clear that he was interested in friendship and casual sex only; he wasn’t the sort of boy you brought home to meet your parents, he insisted. Busy with work and school and friends, you had wholeheartedly agreed – and until recently, the arrangement had worked like a charm. 

“We’ve been friends for a decade and a half; of course we love each other,” you said defensively, in answer to Emily’s accusation. “Just like I love you, or Pete, or anyone else I’ve known a million years.” 

“If that’s how you show friends you love them, I’ll have to ask that you keep your hands to yourself,” your coworker snorted. “Face it, Y/N. You’re too scared to tell Keith you want more, and he’s too much of a clown to admit any serious feelings he may have towards you.” 

“Piss off,” you grouched, turning back to the spreadsheet you’d begun assembling a half hour ago, but not yet touched. “Things are just fine the way they are, thank you very much. If something changes, I’ll let you know.” Behind your back, Emily scrunched up her nose and mouthed your words mockingly; beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew things weren’t going to remain platonic. 

* * * * * 

“John, what am I supposed to do?” Keith groaned, spreading himself out across the floor of his best friend’s kitchen later that morning. “I fucked up when I told her we should just be friends. What was I thinking?” John rolled his eyes and shook his head; his sympathy was limited. 

“You were thinking, ‘Wow, I can shag a beautiful woman, but not be required to conform to the regular expectations of a monogamous relationship,’ you idiot,” John sighed. “You thought there was no way to catch feelings for someone you considered a friend. Amateur move, by the way; even Pete isn’t _that_ thick.” Keith stuck his tongue out at the bassist and pouted at the harsh answer his legitimate question had received. 

“You’re supposed to be on my side, here, John-boy,” the drummer complained. “You’re supposed to say that shit happens, and that it’ll all work out in the end.” This comment earned an uproarious bout of laughter. 

“There’s only three ways it can work out,” John said, holding his hand out to demonstrate the options he’d decided on. “One, you tell her how you feel, and she falls into your arms, admitting that she’s felt the same way all along. Two, she doesn’t feel the same way, and you’ve just shattered a decade worth of friendship.” John shrugged at the look of disbelief on his flatmate’s face, acknowledging that this _was_ a real possibility. “Or three, you say nothing and keep shagging her without recourse until you admit your feelings in a moment of drunken stupidity sometime in the future.” 

“I feel _so_ reassured,” Keith muttered glumly. “Glad I asked you, and not Roger, who would definitely have given me a better answer, just so you know.” 

“Roger’s married, what the fuck does he know about anything?” John frowned. “Just take my word for it, and decide soon how you’re going to bring it up. Tell her the truth, don’t be a miserable sap, and don’t be drunk or high when you do it.” This last bit sounded both stupid and impossible to Keith, but John did seem to know a fair bit about women. Despite his stoic expression onstage, the bassist always had pretty girls knocking down the door of his dressing room after shows. 

“Fine, I’ll give it a go,” Keith decided, hoisting himself up from the floor. “I’ll take her for ice cream or something next weekend.” He grasped John by the sides of his face and pressed a ridiculously loud kiss to the man’s forehead. “Many thanks, John-boy. I’ll let you know how things go.” Keith grabbed his leather jacket from where he had hung it over a chair, and headed for the door – if he was late for work again, his boss would almost certainly make him come in on the weekend to make up the time. 

“Please don’t,” John called after him. “I already have to listen to your _activities_ through these bloody useless walls. I’d rather not know anything more that is absolutely necessary about your relationship with Y/N.” 

“Love you!” Keith hollered back, blowing a kiss over his shoulder at his flatmate. John pressed a hand to his forehead and wished momentarily that he’d been stupid enough to share a flat with Pete. The guitarist was insufferable, but at least wouldn’t ramble on about his women troubles. 

* * * * * 

Keith changed his mind as soon as he heard your voice over the phone. He’d intended to share his feelings while sober, but the fear of rejection gripped him tightly, and he decided instead to invite you out to the club for an evening of drinking and dancing. Keith had sounded a bit jittery when he called, but you chalked it up to a bad phone connection. He told you to be ready for 8:00, and to dress up a bit, if you wanted. 

‘Dressing up a bit’ meant borrowing clothes from your stylish roommate Andrea, who, like Emily, suspected that you and Keith had feelings for each other. As such, she scoured her cupboard for the perfect outfit. Andrea’s style was a bit more upscale and classic than your own; you much preferred comfort and function to high fashion. She wanted you to still look like yourself, but also encouraged you to take risks sometimes. 

“Which do you like best?” Andrea inquired, holding up two miniskirts. When you wrinkled your nose at her suggestions, she sighed in exasperation. “Come on, now. It’s a date, Y/N. Show some skin, tease him a bit. He’s already crazy about you – rile him up enough that he’ll have to admit it.” 

“It’s not a date,” you insisted. “We’re just friends, _really_.” Shaking her head sadly, Andrea shoved the shorter skirt into your hands, and found a cute button-up blouse to match. You stripped down to your underwear and slipped into the outfit. Examining yourself in Andrea’s full-body mirror, you tugged the skirt down a bit, concerned about the likelihood of accidentally exposing yourself in front of other club-goers. 

“Wear cuter knickers,” Andrea teased. “Who knows, maybe you’ll thank me for my advice later.” When you were satisfied that you were dressed well enough to go out, she sent you off to your own bedroom to do your hair and put on a bit of makeup. You applied the perfect shade of lipstick to compliment your blouse, and teased and pinned your hair to the point that you were positive it wouldn’t come undone with a bit of exertion. Andrea squealed with delight when you showed her the finished product. 

“That boy won’t be able to take his eyes off you,” she assured you. Before you were allowed to leave, she reminded you to be safe, not talk to strangers, and “for God’s sake, unbutton that blouse a bit more, or you’ll suffocate.” 

* * * * * 

True to Andrea’s words, Keith’s jaw dropped when you opened the door of your flat to invite him in. He didn’t look so bad himself, dressed in tailored grey slacks, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his best dancing shoes. 

“You look – wow,” was all Keith could manage to say. When he leaned forward to kiss your cheek, you caught the citrus-heavy scent of his cologne – D.R. Harris Classic, which had been a gift from his mother one Christmas. He’d really put in an effort tonight, you realized. 

“You don’t look too shabby yourself,” you smirked, peeking up at him from beneath your lashes. Keith’s eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips – cherry red and perfectly kissable, he thought – but he reminded himself to behave, and keep things friendly for now. He didn’t want to overstep and mess everything up before he was good and ready to talk about more serious matters. For now, it was time to drink and make merry. 

When you arrived at the club, Keith made a beeline for the bar, allowing you to find an empty table wherever you liked. Often, the two of you joined friends or acquaintances wherever they were hanging about, but tonight, you decided to find a table of your own. Keith returned a minute later with a drink in each hand. 

“A G&T for me, and an Evans for you,” he announced, setting your drink on a serviette in front of you. You reached out and snatched his glass from his hand, and took a small sip. Wrinkling your nose, you returned the glass. 

“Tastes like a lot of G and not much T,” you teased. From the rim of your own drink, you grabbed the lemon and lime wedges and squeezed them dry, allowing the citrus juices to drip down over the ice rocks. Keith held out his hand expectantly, and you gave him the rind of your lime wedge. Turning away from each other, you each popped a rind into your mouth, and slid it in front of your teeth with your tongue. Once the lemon was secure, you turned around and tapped on Keith’s arm. He glanced back over his shoulder and and revealed a wide green smile. Giggling, you displayed a matching lemon grin. A woman at the next table over gave the two of you an odd look, sending you both into fits of laughter. This silly act was a bar ritual of yours, stemming from a childhood photo of the two of you with orange-peel smiles, taken at a Brighton holiday camp your families spent time at each summer. 

Once you’d deposited your respective rinds into a nearby bin, you knocked back your drinks and hit the dance floor. The group onstage wasn’t as good as Keith’s band when they played the Marquee, nor were they The Beatles at the Cavern Club, but they could hold a good beat, and the singer wasn’t half bad. Keith was a pretty good dancer when he wasn’t piss-drunk, and you had been a natural dancer since you were young. The pair of you twirled around with wild abandon, occasionally bumping into others, and sometimes stepping on each others’ feet. 

“You look beautiful!” Keith hollered over the music at one point, much to your embarrassment. He was being genuine, you knew it from his expression, but you hated that it made you blush the way it did. For the most part, Keith was stingy with compliments, usually reserving them for John or Pete. Tonight, though, he had been particularly sweet, and had forgone his usual drinking habits. After a half hour, you dragged him back to your table, needing a rest. 

“Loud in here, innit?” he asked, his mouth pressed to your ear. The club had only grown in volume as more people streamed in. Apparently, the next group up was a popular Beach Boys cover band - the reason Keith had chosen tonight to take you out - so the crowd was growing thicker by the minute. It was getting hot, too; both you and Keith were almost to the point of sweating through your shirts. The drummer’s cheeks were ruddy with heat, almost to the point of being concerning. Without thinking, you stepped forward and began undoing the buttons on his shirt, hoping it would help him to cool off. 

“Hey now,” he frowned, setting his hands over your own. “I know I’m easy on the eyes, but didn’t you see the “no shirt, no service” signage on the front door?” His dark eyes glimmered flirtatiously down at you, preventing you from looking away. “Need to talk to you about something,” he said after a moment, setting a hand on your hip. “Can barely hear myself think.” Taking your hand, he led you towards the bathrooms, tucked away near the back, to the left of the stage. 

“I don’t think I’m allowed…” you tried to say, but Keith’s hold on your wrist didn’t abate. He pulled you into the men’s toilet, which didn’t appear occupied. The room was tidier than you’d expected, and didn’t yet smell like vomit as the club toilets tended to later in the night, once everyone had been drinking a while. 

“This is nice,” you joked, glancing around the room. “Come here often?” He remained quiet, staring at you as though he had lost the ability to speak. His expression was serious, which alarmed you more than anything; if there was anything that Keith Moon wasn’t, it was serious. You frowned, and stepped closer to him. “Hey, is everything alright?” Gently, you grazed his cheek with the pad of your thumb, hoping to rouse him from his silence. “Keith?” 

“I’m in love with you,” he murmured, finally directing his attention to you. “I know we’ve been friends forever and a day, but I’m just…I don’t want to be ‘just friends’ anymore. I can’t do it.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his trousers and from it, took one and held it between his teeth. He’d tucked a matchbook into the pack, but his hands were shaking too badly to light up. 

“Let me,” you said gently. Keith shoved his hands in his pockets and watched as you lit and smoked a bit of the cigarette. You’d quit smoking long before, but his confession had shaken you up. If Keith thought a smoke might settle his nerves, it might do the trick for you, too. When you passed the cigarette back, the drummer nodded in thanks. After the first, he smoked a second and a third, and neither of you spoke. 

“So...what do you want?” you asked finally, once Keith seemed to have relaxed somewhat. “If you don’t want to just be friends, what do you want?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All I know is that I can’t pretend that the sex doesn’t mean anything. Thought I could, for your sake, at least, but…” he trailed off. “Don’t think I’d be a good boyfriend either, though. You know me - the boys and I are constantly on the road.” Hoisting yourself up onto the counter between the sinks, you nodded thoughtfully. He _was_ frequently travelling, and that made things challenging. As much as you loved Keith - you did, after all, and always had - you knew that he hadn’t been faithful in other relationships, and that he lived his life hard and fast. You agreed with him, though - it was impossible to remain friends but continue the arrangement you’d been in for the past few months. 

Keith realized after another minute of silence that he needed you close to him, so without a word, he set his hands on your knees and pushed them apart to make room for himself to stand as close to you as he could. He nestled his face in the crook of your neck, and in response, you looped your arms around his neck. Every time you’d gotten off together before, it had started because one or both of you was lonely and drunk; tonight, it was just loneliness. 

“I love you, too, Keith,” you said, pressing a kiss against the side of his head. “We’ll make things work, okay?” He just nodded, and continued to hold you close. 

A random club-goer swung the bathroom door open and wobbled quickly into the room. By the way he was walking, his legs squeezed together awkwardly, he seemed as though he couldn’t care less what was happening between you and Keith; he just needed to piss, and as long as no one stopped him from doing that, he wasn’t about to get his knickers in a twist about seeing a woman in the men’s room. Keith, however, made the executive decision that it was high time to leave the confines of the toilets. 

“Sorry, mate,” he apologized, pulling you gently down from the counter. The situation gave you the giggles, which quickly infected Keith. The two of you snuck out of the bathroom just in time to catch the next band’s rendition of ‘Good Vibrations’, which immediately changed both your moods. 

“Fuck it, we’ll figure things out later,” he yelled, dragging you towards the dance floor.


End file.
